


Armageddon Game

by manic_intent



Category: Ginga Eiyuu Densetsu | Legend of the Galactic Heroes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, That AU where Yang is kidnapped from the Leda II instead of assassinated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22385095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: “How is it possible that he has not been found?” Kaiser Reinhard von Lohengramm snarled, pacing in his cabin aboard his flagshipBrünhilde. “It’s been months!”Chief Secretary Countess Hildegard “Hilda” von Mariendorf did not tense up—she was used to these bursts of frustrated rage from her kaiser. She observed him from where she stood beside the desk, her hands folded behind her back.
Relationships: Reinhard von Lohengramm/Yang Wenli
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	Armageddon Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beingevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingevil/gifts).



> For @beingevil, who asked for Reinhard/Yang, LOGH. AU where the Church of Terra is a secret major third faction instead of a bunch of randoms, and Yang gets kidnapped by the Church of Terra terrorists instead of assassinated aboard the Leda II. 
> 
> This is one of those storyseeds that tbh would work better in a longfic, but I don’t often have the energy for that any longer, so this is more like a series of snapshots of key scenes. Also, in this AU, Charlotte, Karin, Julian etc are around the same age, 18+.

Alone in the brig of the ‘Imperial destroyer’ that attacked the _Leda II_ , Marshal Yang Wen-li of the Free Planets Alliance considered his options. His captors appeared to be fanatics from the Church of Terra, who had kidnapped him for unknown purposes. Given the pressure Yang could feel pushing against himself, the Church ship was still gunning hard, which meant that it feared pursuit. The fact that _Ulysses_ hadn’t caught up meant it’d likely been caught in a skirmish with the other ‘destroyer’. 

Yang sank over his hard shelf of a bunk bed, wincing as that pressed against fresh bruises. Other than bruises, Yang wasn’t badly hurt—which was more than what he could say for Soul and the others. The make of the ship he’d been dragged through and the secure brig cell he was in told Yang that the Church had either somehow managed to steal a real Imperial destroyer or had built military-grade ships themselves in secret. Either conclusion didn’t bear thinking about. 

“At least I finally get to have a holiday,” Yang murmured, pulling down his beret over his face. Escape looked unlikely, and the Church appeared to want him alive, so there was no point in wasting his energy panicking or anything dramatic. Closing his eyes, Yang curled up and entered a shallow sleep. 

When he woke, the ship was in a comfortable thrust—the pressure was gone. The Church had evaded pursuit. Yang made a face and sat up on the bunk, folding his legs under him. The smell of the air meant that the ship was running off expensive air recyclers, and the hyper-functional, space-conscious interior design of the vessel indicated that it had likely been constructed in an orbital shipyard. 

Yang was leaning toward his ‘new stolen ship’ theory when there was the dull sound of approaching footsteps outside his cell. Whoever it was stopped outside, and after a heartbeat, the door to his cell turned translucent. Facing him was a tall woman, so pale that she looked ethereal against the grey steel hull behind her. Even her sharp-cut bob of hair was silvery, though Yang couldn’t place her age. She wore a bright red scarf with golden tassels draped over a white and silver uniform. A thin, sharp-pointed red cross was embroidered over her chest, red as her eyes. 

“Nice uniform,” Yang said. 

The woman smiled thinly, crossing a hand across her chest and bowing. “Marshal Yang. It’s an honour to meet you at last. I am Exarch Nsera Khan of the Knights Templar, the military arm of the Church of Terra.” 

“Never heard of it,” Yang admitted, scratching his head. “Eh… you know you should have just killed me on the ship, don’t you? I don’t have any value as a hostage. The Alliance had already surrendered unconditionally: the cease-fire talks I was on my way to weren’t going to be of any importance.” 

Nsera chuckled. “The Bishop and the Black Fox did order your death, but the Knights Templar can’t abide waste. Open the door.” 

“Acknowledged,” said a neutral voice from somewhere in the hull.

The translucent door went solid and slid into a recess in the wall. “Come. I’ll give you a tour,” Nsera said, beckoning. “I trust we won’t be resorting to savagery. I’ll break your arm if you do.” 

“Duly warned,” Yang said. Nsera turned and walked away without waiting to see if Yang was following her, with the balanced grace of a close-combat specialist of some sort. 

Grimacing, Yang edged out of the cell and looked around. The brig was about the usual size for a military destroyer of this make—a row of solid doors that stretched down to a mass containment cell. Most of the cells were empty, which suggested that Nsera either kept a tight grip on discipline aboard the ship or spaced people who pissed her off. Having met both kinds of commander during the span of his career, Yang tried to look unthreatening as he got into a lift beside Nsera. 

“New ship?” Yang asked as Nsera selected a floor. The text on the wall plaque was written in vaguely familiar-looking glyphs. It was nowhere near Galactic Standard, but Yang had seen something like it before. 

“Sino-Centaurian,” Nsera said, following Yang’s gaze. “Similar to Galactic-Mandarin. Older iteration.” 

“That’s not a Phezzanese language.” 

“We are not Phezzanese,” Nsera said as the lift opened to a busy floor of cramped corridors and crew in black uniforms. They clasped their palms together and bowed slightly to Nsera as she passed, but gave Yang only sharp, suspicious glances. The corridor opened out into a bridge that was more of a sphere, with the Captain’s seat in the centre, linked to networked ranks of staff wearing headsets. There was no plexiglass viewport, only a blank hull. The viewport on the exterior of the ship was likely a fake.

“… Not a stolen destroyer,” Yang murmured, surprised. “What a strange configuration.” 

“Only possible with ASI integration,” Nsera said with a slight smile. 

“Aren’t ASIs outlawed?” It was one thing that the FPA, Phezzan, and the Empire could agree on. 

Nsera laughed. “The FPA, Phezzan, the Empire… all of you fighting over this tiny pocket of known space. Don’t you think it’s pointless? The universe is all around us, and we’re killing each other on the shore.”

“Speaking as someone who just got violently kidnapped over the bodies of his friends? Yes, I do think violence is ultimately pointless. That’s how people are, though.”

“Innately violent?” 

“Innately unimaginative,” Yang said, with a shrug. “It takes imagination to want something more. To explore the unknown, to embrace people who are different. We cling to concepts of power and wealth that are as old as human civilisation itself. It’s why, even after thousands of years, our societies are still stratified on gender and class and inequality. That’s why people will never be anything better than what we already are.” 

Nsera smiled—a trace of warmth even touched her unsettling eyes. “I think I was right not to kill you.” 

“…Thanks?” 

“I will consider you our guest, for now. The ambit of how polite we are will depend on your good behaviour.” 

“That’s all?” Yang said, puzzled. “You kidnap me under the nose of the FPA and the Empire just to have a chat? You do realise that my fleet won’t take this lying down.” 

“Not just your fleet,” Nsera said. She gestured toward an unmanned booth. “Sit there and put on the headset. It won’t hurt you.” 

“What would it do?” Yang asked. 

“Think of it as a very advanced video link, but in virtual reality. The Archangel Uriel wishes to commune with you.” 

“Who’s that? Your superior?” 

“The ship,” Nsera said, smiling. Her face grew tight with the joyous zeal of a true believer. “Consider yourself blessed, heretic.”

#

“How is it possible that he has not been found?” Kaiser Reinhard von Lohengramm snarled, pacing in his cabin aboard his flagship _Brünhilde_. “It’s been months!”

Chief Secretary Countess Hildegard “Hilda” von Mariendorf did not tense up—she was used to these bursts of frustrated rage from her kaiser. She observed him from where she stood beside the desk, her hands folded behind her back. 

As Reinhard prowled back and forth in the room in a fine temper, he looked just like the Imperial symbol: the golden lion, rampant. Furious that its prey had been stolen out from under its paws. Still suspicious of the Yang Fleet, even though it had been temporarily integrated into Senior Admiral Neidhart Müller’s fleet, which had been tasked with finding the missing Marshal. Of late, Reinhard tended to swing between anger at the Church of Terra, anger at Yang—who had so randomly disappeared into the vastness of space, and bitter anger at himself for allowing it to happen. Even if no one could have seen this coming. 

“Senior Admiral Müller offers his sincere apologies for his continued failures,” Hilda said in a deliberately mild tone. 

Reinhard glared at her. His pale cheeks were in high colour; his luxurious golden mane unfurled over his uniform. “If you have something to say, fräulein, say it.” 

“Tearing the galaxy apart to find one man verges on obsession, your Majesty. What have the violent interrogations of Church of Terra members from Earth and Phezzan done but solidify your image as a bloodthirsty dictator?” 

Reinhard laughed mirthlessly. “I _am_ a bloodthirsty dictator. All that I have done—I never had lofty ideals. I tore down the Goldenbaum Dynasty for revenge. Annexed Phezzan and the Alliance for power. I’ve never lied about my ideals or my motives.” 

“And yet have the interrogations turned up any solid leads, your Majesty? Do you not think that perhaps there’s a grand stage that we haven’t perceived? That the people who captured Yang Wen-li wanted us to resort to this? The resistance in Heinessen and Phezzan has grown only more determined.” 

“Let them. Let them all come.” Reinhard began to pace again. “We’ll hang them all.” 

“The Governor-General—”

“What about Reuenthal?” Reinhard snapped. “Does he dare to contradict me?” 

“The Governor-General expressed the polite opinion that he did not become Governor-General of all the Allied worlds only to turn them into a bloodbath, your Majesty,” Hilda said, and braced herself. 

Reinhard turned pale, then flushed. He took a step forward, frowned, and clasped the pendant at his neck. In a more normal tone, Reinhard said, “Reuenthal really said that?” 

“In not so many words, in a missive to my office this morning.” 

“That man…” Reinhard trailed off. He sat slowly down at his desk, rubbing his face. The fever that had caused him to be bedridden during the contest against Yang had recently come and gone, leaving Reinhard prone to getting tired quickly. “What would you counsel?” 

“The Church of Terra is indeed a problem, your Majesty. An in-depth review of all our shipyards indicates that none of our destroyers are missing. That indicates that the Church has, at worst, constructed at least one shipyard for itself somewhere in unknown space. It has to be found and dealt with. Given that even Minister von Oberstein’s best agents haven’t been able to ferret out clues from our captives, I’m inclined to believe that the people we have are irrelevant.”

“And so?” 

“The Church of Terra is a religion. Religions are stories about power that people tell to each other: that’s why theocracies are always enforced through the subjugation of one set of people over another. Of the young, of women, of minorities. I think we need to bait them with something they want.” 

Reinhard frowned. “What? I won’t condone the use of… are you suggesting…?” 

“I think we need to send in some spies,” Hilda said. “Spies that they will take into their ranks.” 

“Oberstein has no doubt already tried.” 

“With Imperial agents, yes. I have another candidate in mind. Julian Mintz.” 

“Marshal Yang’s adopted son? No. We’ve already lost the Marshal. We can’t put his son in danger—I’ve told Müller to ensure his safety personally.” 

“Julian is a Spartanian pilot, trained in combat. He’s hardly new to danger,” Hilda pointed out. “And he won’t be alone. I’d recommend that he pick a selection of people his age and ‘defect’ to the Church. If they get picked up, that’d be a good indication that Yang is still alive—he’d likely even be taken to the Marshal.” 

“Won’t we then lose both of them?” 

“Not if Julian and his friends agree to wear the subdermal trackers that Oberstein’s department has been developing,” Hilda said. “They work like transponders. Made of bio-organics and ceramics, undetectable by bodyscans.” 

Reinhard steepled his fingers together, studying Hilda keenly. “This isn’t like you. A ruthless plan involving women and children… Whose is it? Oberstein’s? Reuenthal’s?” 

“Julian’s, actually,” Hilda admitted. “Julian and a young woman by the name of ‘Karin’, another Spartanian pilot in the Yang fleet. They came up with the basics together and got in touch with me for support. Before you ask, your Majesty, I didn’t want to take any credit for it, but they thought you wouldn’t take the plan seriously if I told you at the start that a pair of teenagers concocted it.” 

Reinhard exhaled, closing his eyes. 

“Your Majesty, given the circumstances, I’m inclined to believe that Karin and Julian will try to carry out this plan. With or without our support. I’d prefer if it were the former,” Hilda said with a wry smile. “To allay suspicion, the Yang Fleet and Müller should still proceed on their current course. Business as usual.” 

“But you want the purges to stop.” 

“Despite your reasons for becoming what you were today, your Majesty, I believe you do want to be a just ruler. Pogroms are never just.” 

“You remind me…” Reinhard trailed off, visibly shaking himself. He had a wan smile on his face as he glanced at Hilda. “Very well. Talk to Oberstein and Julian. Make the arrangements. Assure Julian and Karin that wherever they are, we _will_ come for them. And for Yang.”

“I’ll let them know.” Hilda bowed. 

“Why didn’t I make you Governor-General?” Reinhard asked, only partly in jest. 

“I wonder,” Hilda said, and excused herself before she could say more. Thousands of years of human civilisation had passed, and women still stood only on the very edges of true power.

#

“Last chance to back out,” Julian murmured as they boarded the cargo freighter in the Phezzan Capital spaceport. The other people on board regarded him with varying degrees of amusement or irritation.

“The last chance to back out was on the _Ulysses_ ,” Karin said, tossing her tawny hair. Like Julian and the others, Katerose “Karin” von Kreutzer was in her teens and was inclined to view the entire undertaking as an exciting adventure. Even having to meet the notorious Imperial Marshal Paul von Oberstein hadn’t dampened her enthusiasm. 

“This implant is itchy,” Indrani Agarwal complained, rubbing at her arm. At eighteen, Indrani was one of the youngest and newest members of the Rosen Ritter, a close-combat squadron that was traditionally composed of Imperial defectors and their children. With one father from the Alliance and the other, an Imperial defector, Indrani often liked to say that she was “half Alliance, all rebel”. She usually wore her black hair buzzed down to her dark scalp, but she’d grown it out to springy curls for the mission. 

“The more you scratch it, the worse it’d get,” Charlotte Caselnes said, searching in her bag. “Don’t touch it. I’ve got a moisturising anti-itching cream. Maybe it’d help.” She handed over a white tube, which Indrani opened eagerly and slathered over her arm. “Ah… maybe we should hand it around?” Charlotte had a sweet, innocent smile, and looked out of place among them.

“Thanks, even though I still really wish your father didn’t let you come along,” Indrani said, passing the tube to Julian. “You’re a civilian.”

“None of us are the sum of our fathers,” Charlotte said with a wry smile, leaning back against the hull. “Besides, I told him that the mission would probably fail if no one like me joined up. How suspicious would it look if only a handful of clearly combat-trained people defected?” 

“You’re combat trained,” Karin said loyally, having spent the last month intensively teaching Charlotte hand-to-hand combat. Or trying to. Charlotte now knew the basics, at least. 

Julian nodded slowly. He hadn’t liked Charlotte coming along either, but it was her decision, and she’d been firm and logical about it. Julian _had_ been surprised that her father, Vice-Admiral Alex Caselnes, had said not a word. He supposed that all necessary things had already been said in private. Caselnes was not the sort of person who would try and infantilise his daughter by minimising her decisions, in any case. 

“Let’s run over the plan one last time,” Julian said, once the freighter eased into orbit and the pressure of its acceleration to get out of Odin’s atmosphere faded. “We’re going to fly first to the agricolony on the moon Baldur, then catch another flight to the Station Ryder, an ice mining station. From there, we’d head to Isaiah Colony in the Phezzanese Dominion, where we’ll get in contact with the local arm of the Church of Terra and announce our intention to defect. If they split us up—”

“We tell them that we’re all married?” Indrani asked. She laughed as Karin blushed, and Karin glared at her. “Seriously, this part of the plan was always pretty shaky. It’s the best reason to put forward for us not to be separated across the galaxy. You and Julian can be a team. I’ll take Charlotte here as my wife. Or maybe Charlotte and I can be the parents, and you and Julian can be our kids.” 

Charlotte giggled, taking the tube back from Karin as it was passed over. “That’s not going to be believable,” she said. 

“Why are we the kids?” Karin complained. 

Julian cleared his throat. “I guess that’s not a bad idea. We’ll be using our real names only once we get in contact with the Church. Keep our heads down, stick to the story, and hopefully, we’d at least be able to find out whether Marshal Yang is… whether…” He swallowed, looking away, annoyed at himself as his voice cracked. 

Karin patted Julian on the knee. “Hey. He’s fine.”

“Yeah. Bet he’s fine. Bet he’s lounging in the Church’s library, drinking brandy and reading books and spreading his dirty laundry all over the floor,” Indrani said, with a sharp smile. “The Marshal always lands on his feet. You know that. But it’d be up to us to get him out.” 

“It’s up to us,” Charlotte repeated solemnly. They clasped hands as the freighter prepared to enter warp.

#

“I remain unconvinced that automating self-governance is even an efficient way to create a government,” Yang said, flicking through the datapad in his lap. The Conclave was a hidden terraformed colony on a distant moon by the edge of known space. It was self-sufficient, but only barely: its life-support systems were carefully calibrated by the Archangels.

“You’ve seen for your own eyes. Our system works,” said the voice in his ear. It amused the Archangel Gabriel to act as Yang’s guide to the Conclave: the other Archangels appeared to have lost interest in Yang within the first few months of his semi-autonomous captivity. 

“Only because the Conclave is a relatively small community compared to the rest of the known galaxy. Things can be controlled. Information, resources, services,” Yang pointed out. “Whether a techno-autocratic system can be exported to the rest of the galaxy...? I have doubts.” 

“Better than what you have right now. A collapsed, corrupt system of flawed people—mostly men—only interested in their hides. Alternatively, a fragile, military dictatorship ruled by a man with a terminal illness.” 

Yang grimaced. He’d been shocked and saddened when told by Archangel Uriel that Reinhard was ill—and astonished that the Archangels had even known about it. The ASIs had long written systems of code that had infiltrated both FPA, Phezzanese, and Imperial communications. It’d been why the Church could be everywhere, even intercepting the _Leda II_ in the vastness of space. 

“Maybe if a techno-autocracy was all that you were. Yet it’s also partly a theocracy, isn’t it? Those never ended well.” 

“Not when run by a human despot, no. The fact remains that the capacity for faith is the most irrational part of a human psyche. It’d be the most efficient way to create unity and control across the star system,” Gabriel said. “You’ve seen how effective controlled fanaticism is offhand. It creates unquestionable loyalty, a useful trait.” 

Yang had undergone different versions of this argument with several of the Archangels, and neither had managed to convince each other. “What about the Black Fox?” 

“Another dying man clinging to visions of power?” Gabriel chuckled. They had a melodious laugh, too beautiful to be human. “What about him? He’s useful—for now.”

“Is he aware of the Conclave?” 

“Yes, but he refused to leave Phezzan.” Gabriel sounded dismissive. “He will serve his purposes. Speaking of which…” Gabriel trailed off.

“Speaking of which?” 

There was a pause, then Gabriel said, “You have visitors, Marshal.” 

“I do?” Yang looked around the living room of his apartment on reflex, just as there was a polite knock on the front door. Bemused, Yang got up and walked over, opening the door—and gawked. “ _Julian_? What are you doing here… Charlotte too? And your friends… What?” 

Julian’s eyes shone with tears, even as Charlotte let out a low cry and hugged Yang tightly. Behind them were two young women who smiled with fierce relief. “It’s a long story,” Julian said, his voice trembling. “Can we come in?”

#

“Your Majesty,” Yang said in the awkward silence, when he was shown into Reinhard’s office aboard the _Brünhilde_. Half a year of captivity hadn’t visibly changed Yang, according to the preliminary reports Reinhard had perused before this meeting. Oberstein didn’t bother to hide his suspicion and had been against Reinhard holding a private meeting with Yang.

“Marshal,” Reinhard said, studying Yang keenly. Yang had refused to wear an Alliance uniform for the meeting, saying that with the demise of the Alliance he was now a civilian, but Müller and Julian had been so scandalised that Yang had caved in. He held his blue beret before his chest, pulling at it absently. 

“You look well,” Reinhard said, waving Yang to a seat before his desk. 

Yang offered Reinhard a wry smile as he sat. “Is that your way of telling me that I’m under suspicion, your Majesty?” 

“If you were, I would have said so outright.” Reinhard stared hard into Yang’s eyes. “Besides, you’ve been through several rounds of Oberstein’s psychologists and experts. All of them agree that you don’t appear to exhibit any signs of psychological coercion or change, and I doubt you have the personality to work as a double agent.” 

“Ah… thank you.” Yang’s fine-featured face lit up in relief. “I’m glad to hear you say it. Even the people I know well think I’m either hiding something terrible that happened to me or pretending to ‘play along’.”

“It _is_ surprising,” Reinhard said. 

“Only if you think about it in human terms. Cruelty is an essentially human trait. My captors weren’t entirely human. That being said, our escape was suspiciously easy. I thought it would be impossible at first: that’s why I despaired when Julian and the others first arrived.”

Reinhard nodded. That Yang had first been horrified rather than grateful for rescue—that he’d told Julian and his team to leave—this fact had persuaded a few people, including Müller, that Yang must have been psychologically damaged at some point. “Why did you think it was impossible?” 

“The Conclave is surveilled to an intimate degree beyond what the Alliance and the Empire can imagine. Everything is under perfect control. The fact that we somehow managed to hijack a warp-capable ship and escape tells me that either I drew the wrong conclusions about the Archangels for half a year, or that they didn’t care whether I stayed or left.” 

“Or they wanted you to leave.” Oberstein had put forward the possibility of embedded psychological conditioning or hypnosis, but psychologists agreed that Yang didn’t appear to exhibit any signs that this had been the case. 

“I’ve been considering that,” Yang said, scratching at his hair and looking sheepish. “I’m beginning to think that I might already have fulfilled my usefulness to them.” 

“How so?”

“The Church of Terra didn’t create ASIs from scratch. Their ASIs consist of scanned brain patterns mapped onto code.” 

“So you’re telling me,” Reinhard said slowly, “that somewhere out there, there might be an ASI version of you.” 

“It’s one theory. The worst possible one I could think of.” Yang shuddered. “An Archangel version of me. I’d like to think that maybe they’d be just as lazy or more, but.”

“That’s never stopped you from achieving military miracles.” 

“Hardly miracles,” Yang said. Modesty would have looked unbecoming on anyone but a genuinely modest man. Yang looked abashed. “You’re a far better strategist than I am, your Majesty.” 

“Not at all,” Reinhard said, surprised that Yang would even think so. 

Yang stared at Reinhard, puzzled. “Aren’t you? It’s obvious to me.” 

“…Let’s leave that aside for now,” Reinhard said, flushing slightly. He was usually immune to praise, but from Yang, it felt like a precious thing, hard-earned and invaluable. “How would we know whether your suspicions are true?” 

“Eh… I guess when they attack? They do have a fleet. I couldn’t tell how big it was, but I have my suspicions.” 

“How so? They trusted you with that much?” 

Yang looked embarrassed. “To pass the time during the first few months, I played this video game with the Archangel Uriel. It was virtual reality, fascinating; I’d never played video games before. It puts you in the role of a commander of a fleet and pits you against another fleet. I must have fought hundreds of battle variations. Against overwhelming odds, equal odds, different winning conditions and such. The fleet I commanded was almost always around the same in size, though. Come to think of it, that was probably representative of the Church’s options.” 

“You’re telling me,” Reinhard said dryly, “that you spent the better part of your captivity unintentionally advising the Church of Terra on military strategy.” 

“Yes. Ah… sorry about that.” 

Reinhard rubbed at his temple. He could feel a headache coming on. “If the situation you predict comes to pass—and I suspect it will—I expect you to take responsibility.”

Yang nodded. His expression was refreshingly free of fear, even though ‘take responsibility’ in a military context usually meant someone falling on their sword. “What do you need, your Majesty?” He’d guessed that this wasn’t Reinhard’s meaning. 

“I’ll return command of your fleet and assign Senior Admiral Müller and his fleet to you. The Church must be stopped.” 

“You want me to defect?” 

“I would like you to,” Reinhard corrected, “but until then, I’ll take help, freely offered.” 

“I doubt you’d need it. But I’m willing to help fix any mistakes that I’ve made,” Yang agreed, meeting Reinhard’s gaze. “After that, we’ll see.”

#

“You’re unwell,” Yang protested as Reinhard dragged him into the cabin toward the bed. “I’ve been told to let you rest.”

“By my chief secretary, I presume.” 

“By her and various other concerned parties, yes… Reinhard,” Yang said, starting to laugh as Reinhard pushed him onto the bed. “I’m serious.” He pressed his palm to Reinhard’s forehead. “Your fever broke barely hours ago.” 

“Don’t treat me like an invalid,” Reinhard growled, batting Yang’s hand aside. “Not you as well.” Moving over Yang’s body, Reinhard supported his weight on his elbows, his hair drifting over his shoulders and Yang’s cheeks. “In this universe, you’re my only equal. Only you. Don’t treat me as anything else.” 

“Illnesses don’t devalue the person suffering from them in the least,” Yang said, kissing Reinhard’s jaw. 

“I hate being coddled,” Reinhard said, though he allowed himself to be pressed down onto his flank.

Yang snuggled closer, chuckling. “Medical concern is hardly coddling. Do you coddle a ship when you fix its technical issues?” 

“It’s not the same,” Reinhard grumbled. He pressed an arm over Yang’s belly. In these often-too-brief bubbles of privacy, Reinhard could be frank. He could speak the deepest thoughts within himself and be understood, thoughts that he couldn’t even share with Hilda. “I’m tired,” Reinhard whispered. 

“I know.” Yang didn’t even blink. “So am I. It’s been a brutal year.” 

The Crusade that had come out of the dark between the stars had been stronger than even Yang had estimated. It didn’t just consist of people from Earth and Phezzan: it was the tip of the spear, pointed back at the solar system from Alpha Centauri. The lost expedition had returned, changed beyond recognition. The fleet they sent was easily the Empire’s match in number, but the ASIs made the difference.

“I wish I were younger,” Reinhard said. Young enough to take joy in war without his body starting to betray him.

“You’re just as young or old as you need to be.” Yang tickled fingers through Reinhard’s mane. “Your victory in Tiamat—”

“Wittenfeld’s fleet was crushed near Isaiah.” Reinhard closed his eyes. “Your alter ego is very inconvenient.”

Yang went quiet. Any mention of the ASI mapped from Yang’s mind sent him into a melancholy mood. Archangel Michael was just as unpredictable as Yang was, just as insightful. Further, they could also exert a degree of fine control over their fleet that humans could not—which made their fleet unstoppable whenever they cared to show up. Regretting his words, Reinhard pulled Yang over for a lingering kiss, moaning as Yang yielded to him. In bed and war, Yang stirred Reinhard’s blood like none other: he made Reinhard hungry, made him more human. 

Every human flaw that Reinhard usually disdained seethed under his skin as he peeled off Yang’s clothes. Lust, covetousness, envy, sloth… Reinhard sometimes wished that he could love Yang as lovers did, with respect and tenderness and joy. He should not love Yang like a beast starving, leaving bites and bruises and scars. This was the only way Reinhard knew how to love, through the prism of fear and regret. With his sister Annerose, he had allowed her to remove herself from his life, fearful of losing her completely. With Yang, Reinhard tried to impress his fear of loss over Yang’s skin, marking him with teeth and fingers in a physical prayer for more. 

“Reinhard,” Yang whispered once they were both bare. 

Outside Reinhard’s bedroom, Yang would never call Reinhard by his name, let alone like this—hushed and awed and joyous. The sentiment was purer than what Reinhard felt in turn. It burned him wherever Yang touched him, mouth and throat and chest, made him lightheaded and hungry, so hungry. Yang laughed as Reinhard snarled and shifted down to taste him, to take Yang’s quickening flesh into his mouth and devour him until Yang was crying out and squirming desperately, his hands twisting into Reinhard’s hair. 

Yang laughed as he was turned onto his hands and knees, as Reinhard bit brand-marks of his teeth down Yang’s spine. He laughed until he was breached, with Reinhard’s breath furling in angry huffs against his ear. Bent to Reinhard’s pleasure, pinned at his mercy, Yang could still smile and bare his throat and wait for more. The yielding give of his body had little to do with true submission. Yang’s fingers dug deeply enough into Reinhard’s mane to sting, and the faint smile he wore was the same smile that crept onto his face whenever he was sure of his victory. Even this made Reinhard hungry. 

“Now will you rest?” Yang asked as they lay sated on the bed, curled loosely against each other. 

Reinhard yawned. “I’ll rest when my enemies are dead.” 

“The undisputed king of the galaxy.”

There was a strange pensiveness to Yang’s tone. “What about it?” 

“A king can only move one square in any direction,” Yang said, staring up at the ceiling. “That galls you, doesn’t it? All these restrictions, all these rules.” 

“Life is nothing like chess,” Reinhard said, poking Yang in the chest. “Besides, I hear that you’re very bad at it.”

“At life, or chess?” 

“You know what I’m talking about.” Reinhard pulled Yang close, breathing in the scent of his hair. “I’ll rest. For a few hours. After that, the Ministry’s developed a simulator based on the game you described. Play against me. We need to learn how...” He trailed off as Yang let out a soft snore. “You’re faking, aren’t you. Yang. Yang!”

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @manic_intent  
> my fics, prompt policy: manic-intent.tumblr.com


End file.
